


Aquisition, Recognition, Affirmation

by Pi (Rhea)



Category: Baccano!
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Yuletide 2012
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-13
Updated: 2012-12-13
Packaged: 2017-11-21 01:00:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/591655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhea/pseuds/Pi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Luck buys a bar, he isn't expecting all the repercussions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aquisition, Recognition, Affirmation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lelek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lelek/gifts).



> Thanks to Paul for not!ficcing this piece out with me on skype, without you it wouldn't be what it is.

When Luck first buys the bar it’s simply a strategic move. It’s in their territory, the proprietor isn’t a Gandor but he’s respectful of the true power in the neighborhood. When the place goes on the market Luck doesn’t want to spend the time educating a new landlord so he buys it himself. It’s too close to the Alveare to do otherwise. The Gandor family owns several clubs, speak easies-turned-bars, and casinos. The previous owner reported a steady stream of revenue and while they’re still mafia as much as legitimate, Luck takes pains to set up the Gandor family as more than just a mob. They have as many above board interests at this point as they’ve had unsavory in the past. Something about immortality has inspired an unprecedented streak of good behavior. Partially the potential of long-term jail time has grown much more grim, and threatening in the face of an ageless existence.

 

Luck appoints some new bouncers, but keeps most of the original staff. The owner takes his last week to introduce Luck around and everyone is genial and welcoming of their new boss, even with the last name Gandor. In fact, Luck has the sneaking suspicion some of the younger men are more excited than perturbed about working under an infamous mob member. Luck tries not to laugh outwardly at their eager young faces. Luck shares his power with Keith and Berga. Keith stays out of the spotlight, focused on his wife and young son over the duties of territorial stability, book keeping, and shifting toward more legitimate enterprises. Berga is fantastic at cracking heads and bellowing the terror of God into the mere mortals he encounters, but it is Luck who is truly running the Gandor family. It’s more or less an open secret. Fear Berga’s fists second only to Luck’s wit. It’s not an entirely undeserved reputation.

 

“You should come back sometime during working hours,” one of the young men says with a hopeful smile, “then you’ll really get a sense for the place.” He shifts from foot to foot, unconsciously projecting his nerves. Luck smiles politely.

“I’m sure I’ll make an inspection at some point. Until then, you may carry on.” The man swallows and bobs his head in a hasty nod. Luck turns back to the owner. “Well, all seems to be in order. Is there anything else I need to be aware of before I make this official.” The older man shakes his head. He holds out a black pen in one gnarled hand.

“Enjoy your retirement,” Luck signs with a flourish and hands the pen back. The pervious owner clasps his hand in gratitude and waves Luck off.

 

Luck takes one meal a week with his brothers. They’ve set aside Wednesday lunches the last few years. With the Gandor’s rise to power, and immortality nothing has truly grown easier. Luck hadn’t expected it to. They all make an effort to meet on Wednesdays, usually at the Alveare or sometimes the Coragiosso when Firo’s available. Luck values his time with his siblings. They’re each growing into their different lives. Keith always brings pictures of his children. As eldest child, Keith is the rightful heir to the Gandor family. Luck sometimes wonders, if Keith had chosen to pick up the reigns of power, how his life would be different. As it is, he can’t help but smile at the pictures of his niece and nephew sitting beside their mother, poised at the piano as if about to play. Berga expresses his frustration with Luck’s move toward more legitimate enterprise with the disgust of those truly disturbed by change. Luck tilts an eyebrow to Keith who answers with a shrug. Berga’s desire to break skulls will go unfulfilled another week. Keith slides a newspaper across the table, idly tapping a finger against a headline declaring America winner of the boxing tournament at this year’s Olympic games. Berga goes quiet, staring at the paper and Luck wonders at how many things can possibly change.

 

The conversation shifts, as it always does, to Claire. Luck will never grow used to the name Felix and Claire has grudgingly allowed his brothers to refer to him by his first name. To them, he will always be Claire. He and Chane continue in their traveling, rarely staying in one space for long. Luck never questions why. There are some things better not to know. They all read the most recent letter Keith has received. Luck’s finger pauses along the line of text, hovering over the word _married_. The shape forms over his lips and Berga’s guffaw of laughter resounds violently in the room. He slaps Luck on the shoulder.

“A real proper wedding,” he bellows. Luck continues to stare at the date of their arrival in New York. _I know we’re already married, but after the honeymoon I thought we ought to do it proper, with family and guests and a big party. New York’s really the only place for it. So we’ll be imposing on you soon. I can tell you Chane and I are looking forward to it. Yours, Felix._

“Do you think he’s even thought to find a place?” Luck wonders aloud and Berga slaps the table with laughter.

 

With Claire it’s never possible to know what’s planned. He doesn’t do anything by halves, but he lives his life as unplanned as any madcap adventurer Luck’s ever come across in the pulp novels Berga insists he isn’t bringing into the house. Just in case, Luck starts making arrangements. None of their places have a dance floor big enough. Alveare is nice; it’s still a jazz club, now one that serves alcohol above ground. Luck doesn’t want to have a big party on top of Gandor headquarters. Knowing Claire, everyone will be invited, and while Claire is an exceptional judge of character, Luck hasn’t gotten as far as he has in the world without strong touch of paranoia. So Luck finds himself paying is first visit to his newest property.

 

It’s reasonably sized, a modest dance floor, perhaps a touch too small for a party for Claire. There are recessed booths around small round tables, a well stocked bar, a few pool and card tables. The lighting is generally dim, the warm yellow and haze of smoke Luck has grown accustomed to moving through. The bar is dotted with patrons, the whole venue is well attended. It’s early yet for dancing, but beyond the dance floor the booths and alcoves are filled with clusters of people, couples engaged and otherwise ignoring their sweating drinks perched on the rickety round tables. It’s as he moves towards the bar that Luck starts to notice something odd. Certainly clubs like this have a particular clientele, men out to gamble, drink and avoid their houses. Luck is used to it from the casinos, but even then they’re never _entirely_ male. As Luck looks around, all the patrons are men. Luck sucks in a sharp breath but doesn’t stop in his movement toward the bar. He signals for a drink and is surprised to see the same young man from when he bought the place.

“Mr. Gandor.” He greets with a smile. “It’s on the house,” he slides the drink across the bar.

“Thank you.” Luck murmurs, palming the cool glass. The bartender bobs his head again with a flash of smile. Luck hasn’t figured how to phrase the question he wants to ask before the bartender is called away. Luck spends an hour at the bar, watching the ebb and flow of people. By the time he leaves, Luck has yet to see one of the fairer sex. Perhaps he’d only arrived on a gentlemen’s night, Luck supposes. He makes a note to return to the club the following day for a comparison.

 

Three days in a row and Luck is certain he’s purchased not just a bar, but a very specific breed of gentlemen’s bar. Enough of the men leave in couples toward the end of the evening that Luck has very little doubt about the matter. The crestfallen look of the handsome young man who’d finally offered to buy Luck a drink after two hours shooting him glances from down the bar sealed his assessment of the place. Luck had rebuffed the man gently and taken his leave for the evening, not entirely settled in his own thoughts. He spends the next two days examining their other venues, however his new acquisition seems to be the only one truly suitable for Claire’s purposes, as much as it isn’t the place for a wedding. Luck returns to the club, just to be sure. By now he’s grown accustomed to the atmosphere, though he doesn’t return the bar tender's smile and keeps strictly to himself, watching the room with what he what he realizes is a piqued interest. Luck takes himself home and pours himself a large glass of scotch. The look Berga gives him when his brother plods into the kitchen at just past two tells Luck very clearly that in the morning, when Luck is sober and Berga is awake they will be discussing this. At least Luck will be able to divert the subject to Berga’s midnight snacking habits if he acts quickly enough.

 

Unfortunately, in the morning Berga is well rested and Luck is not. Berga’s purple rabbit printed pajamas are no less hellish in the light of day. Perhaps there’s just enough of the intoxication of the night before, but Luck manages to entertain their topic of conversation with general restraint.

“You’re implying their all confirmed bachelors.” Berga frowns, “well, you own the place. Just have’em out for a night and we’ll hold the wedding then. They can go back to their ways the next day.”

“You’re not worried about us owning the place in general?” Luck glances up from his meager breakfast.

“Should I be?” Berga’s stare is more evaluating then Luck is comfortable with. Berga isn’t always the sharpest dagger in the set, but he’s Luck’s brother. “They’re paying, we’re earning money off them. It’s business.”  Luck shrugs, offers up a smile. “Then I see no problem with it,” Berga slams a hand on his shoulder.

 

It’s two weeks before Claire’s due in New York. Luck sets up an afternoon appointment with man he’s left in charge of his gentlemen’s bar. He’s a tall, thin, slightly balding man selected by the previous owner and very competent at his job. Luck has rarely seen such neat book keeping.

“You want to hold a wedding?” He asks, running a hand over his bald patch. “Here? Your brother and his _wife_.” He coughs, “you do realize that we are a, a _gentlemen’s_ club?” Luck doesn’t bother to hide his amusement.

“I am in fact aware of the situation. I am asking that you close the club to the general public for one night in order to host my brother’s wedding. You’ll all be compensated, a full night of work, but for a wedding instead.”

“Will there be a priest?” the manager asks. Luck considers this a moment. Claire had said a wedding. He and Chane are already married legally: a wedding at a city hall across the country a year ago with one unknown witness.

“I am under the impression this will be more reception than wedding. The couple has already been officially married.” Luck doesn’t go on to expound upon Claire’s lack of stock in the church. If Claire marries them, he and Chane are married in the eyes of the world. “No, it’s going to be a party. A symbolic affair. One night.”

The manager sighs, “Well, I suppose so.” Luck thanks the man but doesn’t set a date; he still has to talk with Claire.

 

“You own a gentlemen’s club.” Claire crows, he hugs Luck. “Your moving up in the world. Chane, isn’t that wonderful? We’re becoming respectable. A world of legitimate enterprises. A world in which we’ll be married.”

“I did tell them there wouldn’t be a priest.” Luck cautions.

“Certainly not!” Claire agrees, “but Chane and I must be able to dance away an evening with our families. And you want cake, don’t you Chane.” Claire pulls his mute wife to his side. She smiles at him beatifically. It makes Luck’s chest clench in a fierce protective joy to see them so happy. “We’ve been away too long I take it,” Claire grins.

“Welcome back.” Luck wraps his arms around them both, Claire’s strong shoulder under his hand, Chane’s slim fingers at the back of his neck.

 

Of course, Claire requires attending the club to himself approve of the venue selection. Luck could have expected as much. Claire finds it impossible not to draw attention between his physique and easy, plentiful smiles, as bright a burning beacon as his red hair. If Luck didn’t know better he’d think Claire might be flirting. Luck tries not to spend the night morosely staring into his drink. Claire spends it gesticulating, telling stories about his adventures with Chane and leaning into Luck’s side.

“You know what they’re going to think.” Luck mutters, easing to the side of his stool.

“What who’s going to think?” Claire asks, pausing in the detailed description of the beautiful red dress he found for Chane. “It’s not really fit for a wedding, but it’s so perfect on her.” He rhapsodizes. Luck snorts. It’s an inelegant sound, but Chane turns Claire into an almost foreign creature.

“I’m sure it’s lovely. Didn’t she pick out a wedding dress?” Claire nods enthusiastically; it flips his red curls down into his eyes.

“I haven’t gotten to see it.” Claire confides, or perhaps complains, “not allowed to see it before the wedding night you know.” Claire’s waggle of his eyebrows does not make Luck laugh but it’s a near thing.

“I’m glad you’re happy.” Luck says instead. Claire pauses in his speech. Suddenly the club around them feels too quiet. Claire cocks his head to the side as if considering.

“You know, it’s fine with me if you fit in here.” Claire says with a wide gesture towards their surroundings. Alcohol sloshes gently in his glass. “Hell, if I hadn’t met Chane when I did, I might agree with you.” Claire smirks, “that man at the far end of the bar has been giving you the eye all night.” Claire squints and Luck turns to follow his gaze. “Actually, he looks familiar.”

Luck can feel a pounding headache coming on, “That’s because he works for the Daily Days.” The blond man averts his eyes but Luck thinks he knows he’s been caught staring. Luck pinches between his eyebrows.

“I do not need this right now.” 

Claire hums. “Bartender.” Luck stares incredulous as Claire orders the information dealer a drink. “Come on,” Claire elbows Luck. Luck has no choice but to follow him down the bar.

 

The reporter seems as surprised as Luck by Claire’s approach. His face pales as he gets a good look at Claire’s face.

“I feel like we’ve met before,” Claire ponders, landing on the seat next to the reporter. “I don't recall your name though. Were we ever introduced?” Claire leans closer to the man, peering into his face.

The man flinches back, squeaks out, “Vino?”

“Well, that narrows it down a bit.” Claire smiles, “if you make my brother here unhappy, you’ll be answering to me. I may be a retired assassin, but there are still a few handy trains around here. You wouldn’t want a repeat performance. Encores can be deadly.” Claire shoves himself off the stool. “Have a lovely evening. This seems like the perfect place for a wedding. I’ll tell the manager it’s in two days.” Claire leaves with a wave. Luck stares at his empty seat, at the highly disturbed reporter. Luck sighs and sits. He’s been cleaning up after Claire his whole life. He might as well insure none of this goes into the Daily Days' information pool.

Luck turns to look the reporter in the face, “What is your name?”

“Nicholas. Nicholas Wayne.” His hand is surprisingly firm, dry but callused. Luck suspects he knows his way around a gun. “And you’re Luck Gandor,” Nicholas continues, meeting Luck’s eyes. “What would you be doing in a place like this?”

“I own the place.” Luck answers coolly, “My brother will be marrying his wife here in two days time. In fact.” Luck is sure his smile isn’t particularly pleasant. “I’m sure the happy couple would love if you reported on their wedding. Felix and Chane would love it if you attend.”

Nicholas cocks his head to the side, “Is this a business transaction?” Luck taps a finger against the bar at the base of the untouched glass Claire ordered.

“It’s a friendly invitation. It’s not just a Gandor family event. You’d be surprised at the connections Felix has, friends in many places. Not really the kind of people you want to just go talking about.” Luck shrugs casually, “ears are everywhere.” Luck steps away from the bar, pushing the glass towards Nicholas. “You look like you could use a drink.” 

 

Luck doesn’t think about the reporter in the next few days. He doesn’t think about much besides planning for a wedding. It’s an all-consuming task even as Luck delegates everything. Claire doesn’t make it any easier coming up with requests for ice swans and a sculpture of a train billowing smoke with less than 48 hours before the day of the event. Chane flits from room to room trailing lace and decorations, playing with Keith’s children and practicing her knife throwing against the dartboard in the billiards room to the tune of Kate’s piano playing. In all, it’s a surprisingly normal day when a gang of Chane’s friends shows up with the last bottles of their bootleg liquor, which they’ve been saving for a particularly important occasion. They also bring fireworks. Once Luck is assured they do not intend to set them off in his club he leaves them to their planning of explosive artistry.

With all the work from a small army of Gandor members and Claire’s friends and associates, its no small wonder the wedding is a spectacle. Luck almost doesn’t recognize the interior of the club. The manager assures Luck with great hand wringing that Claire has not actually changed any of the structural interior, he doesn’t think. Whatever he’s done it’s gorgeous, though Luck isn’t entirely certain what to make of the live peacock wandering the dance floor. The band is peppy, the crowd is dressed in their finest, the bar is well stocked and drinks are overflowing. Luck rests against the bar and considers the masterwork before him. Claire dances with Chane, their eyes caught in a never-ending tangle. It’s been like that from the moment Chane entered the room, the warm lights reflecting off her dress like sparks of fire. It’s white and gold, pearls and filigree floating around her in its shear falls, accenting the small rise of her breasts and the tuck of her waist before drifting out around her feet. The pearl strands have been interwoven with Chane’s black hair till everywhere on her person seemed to reflect that creamy glow. Put against Claire’s charcoal matte black tails and tousled red hair the effect is intoxicating.

 

Looking away from the dancing couples, Luck sees Keith playing cards in a back booth with several cousins. The woman who brought the fireworks is curled into the side of the man who brought the liquor. He can’t seem to keep his eyes dry, dabbing them every time he looks towards the newly weds. Maiza and several of the Martillo comorristas stand at the back of the room with the card players. Maiza isn’t playing; rather deep in conversation with the blonde man Luck has yet to see without a cigarette. Luck wonders if they’re betting on the game. Maiza isn’t a gambling man but there’s a first time for everything. Firo has taken to the dance floor with his sweetheart. They’re almost as striking a couple as the bride and groom. Ennis’s tailored suit and red hair are nearly as handsome as Claire’s, and Firo is equally besotted. Luck wonders how long it will be before they’re hosting another wedding. Firo and Ennis have been living together for a while, though Luck wonders if providing a stable home for Chez isn’t holding Firo back from the grand gestures Luck expects of the young romantic. Or perhaps Firo is holding back for Ennis’ sake. The woman is still learning as much about the world beyond alchemy as she is engaging with it. Luck doesn’t see Nicholas, or any other reporters of the Daily Days.

 

Cleaning up from the party doesn’t take quite as long as putting it together, but it is as arduous. Once the fireworks have been set off and the party guests sent home Luck and the manager share a look of wordless exhausted aggravation.

“Did anyone consider preparing for cleaning up afterward?” The manager asks with the kind of dejection Luck knows originates in complete defeat.

“I wasn’t thinking beyond the party, it was too soon to plan further.” Luck admits, leaning back against the bar.

“I could open the good whiskey.” The manager offers. Luck chuckles at that.

“I assume all your staff want to go home. Have they already left?”

“Almost all of them.” The manager admits. He wipes at his forehead. Luck sighs.

“Ask any of them who are still here if they’re willing to help. We’ll do what we can tonight.”

“Whiskey it is then.”

 

Luck is grateful he only took Claire up on one dance with Chane. Chane is an accomplished dancer, but as the morning light filters in through the few dusty windows where the curtains aren’t fully drawn, Luck is just grateful to be standing. The room, peacock and melted swans and giant train are all back to their original state. Well, the peacock is now at the local zoo, as neither Luck nor the manager were sure of it’s origin. The bottle of whiskey is dry. Luck is seriously contemplating sleeping in one of the booths farthest from the windows, dignity be damned.

“I think that’s everything.” Luck nods blearily to the manager, “You boys did a good job. I don’t think there’s been a better wedding this century.” The few remaining staff members, including the smiling bartender, send up a weak cheer. Luck sways on his feet. “You all should take the day off, paid. I’ll have Keith provide other staff.” There’s more exhausted, congratulatory cheering. Luck pays himself a taxi home.

 

Facing Claire and Chane across the lunch table that afternoon is much nicer than Berga across the breakfast table. Luck is feeling wholly sober, and perhaps too exhausted for even a hangover. Luck doesn’t have to ask for an opinion on the party. No sooner has he served himself some of Firo’s delicious soup then Claire has started retelling the grand tale of their wedding celebration. Luck contents himself with eating, watching Chane’s smile and nodding in time with Firo’s encouragements. Berga’s still asleep or perhaps hung over and unwilling to leave his room, having drunk half the bar on his own in toasting his brother’s marriage. The post-wedding lunch crowd is perkier than Luck finds reasonable. Claire and Firo are never reasonable at ungodly hours of day. Chane and Ennis are both markedly tightlipped, though Ennis does occasionally venture a thought in her deep breathy voice. It will never cease to amuse Luck that her voice is lower than Firo’s own, trapped forever before fully settling into a deeper adult resonance.

“How long are you staying for?” Luck asks eventually when it appears Claire will never run out of ways to describe the miracle that was his wedding. Claire pauses, twiddles his fork back and forth between two fingers.

“I was thinking another week. Chane and I were thinking of taking a train down the coast. See the south. I hear there are alligators down there.” Claire grins full of teeth.

“We’re happy for as long as you’re willing to stay.” Luck nods, “you as well Chane, you’re always welcome here, as family.”

“How about you?” Claire asks, the nonsequitor throwing Luck off entirely.

“Pardon?” Luck sets down his fork.

“Keith has his lovely piano lady Kate and their two pipsqueaks. Firo here is practicing wife husbandry like the best of them.” Firo squawks out a protest, Luck thinks Ennis might be blushing, “Berga mentioned he’d found a doll himself. Real wild one, a florist. She went to his first boxing match.” Claire taps his fork against his temple in thought. “Kali!” he snaps his fingers.

“Berga found a girl?” Firo asks aghast.

“He didn’t tell me he’d had his first boxing match.” Luck frowns. Claire shrugs.

“He lost. She gave him flowers. Anyways.” Claire waves away their stares, “I’m asking when you’re going to be adding to the family. That reporter was very nice.”

“What reporter?” Firo looks back and forth between them.

“No one, Firo.” Luck sighs, “Claire is prying into business that isn’t his. In fact, there is no business.” Luck stands up with a clatter of cutlery on china.

“Luck!” Firo calls after him. Claire doesn’t say anything. That is probably the most dangerous thing, considering.

 

After their lunch conversation, Luck shouldn’t go back to the club. He doesn’t for a few days. There’s enough to do, Luck doesn’t have the free time. But somehow around the wedding Luck had grown almost fond of the place. It’s relaxing somehow. Luck doesn’t take time to think on the implications of having a somewhere to let his guard down. He goes back anyway. His drink is still on the house, but now the bartender makes it to his expectations without having to be told. Luck doesn’t return the smile with one of his own, but a nod seems to suffice. Luck is even beginning to recognize other regulars. It’s what makes them stand out so badly, that and the fake moustaches. The two look vaguely familiar. They appear to be dressed as lumberjacks. The blonde’s hair keeps falling out from where it’s tucked under her hat.

“They _are_ all men!” The woman whispers. She’s clearly female. She adjusts her moustache, “Our disguises are perfect.”

“Too right you are, Miria my dear. No one will ever know.” The man booms. Luck picks up his glass and moves down the bar away from where the couple are pretending to take apart the bar with an imaginary ax. Luck darts a glance around the room for one of the hired bouncers. It’s almost surprising how protective Luck feels for the place. The clink of a glass next to his own draws his attention to the man shifting onto the stool beside him.

“They’re just thieves. Nothing to worry about.” Nicolas says before sipping at his drink. “Just make sure the bartender locks up the good stuff. Though, they’re as likely to steal a sink or a bar stool as anything valuable.” Luck eyes him.

“How do you know that?”

“Oh we ran a story on them after they stole the entrance to a museum, posed for pictures with the door.” Nicholas offers a wry smile. “I’m probably the only one you’d have to worry about here.” Nicholas stretches his arms over his head, leaning from side to side.

“Is that so?” Luck thinks it sounds properly menacing but Nicholas just smiles in response.

“Nothing to get in a twist over though. I’m discrete.” Nicholas winks. “Well about this at least. Doesn’t do well to sell information on your own kind does it?” Nicholas clinks the ice in his drink. Luck realizes the sidelong look Nicholas is casting him requests an answer.

“No, I suppose it doesn’t.” Luck demurs.

“You’re not really a regular here though.” Nicholas continues. “Or you’re new to all this at least.”

“I own the place.” Luck points out.

“But you didn’t visit when it first changed hands.” Nicholas points out. “Oh, you didn’t expect me to know.” His grin is sly, “I looked into the deal. When you’re in my trade it’s important to know who knows what about where a person goes. I’m a regular.” Nicholas salutes with his glass.

Luck’s fingers clench around his own, “Are you?” his cool tone does not usually precipitate laughter. Nicholas seems to find his surprise even funnier.

“Maybe I’ll see you around.” He says standing, tossing back the rest of his drink in one long work of throat. He sets his glass down with a startlingly soft clink. “No, I’m not worried about you Mr. Luck Gandor.” He starts to turn away, leaving Luck staring at his empty glass, “And next time you see me, you’re welcome to buy me a drink. I’ll be free.” His eyes crinkle up in a smile and he gives a jaunty wave. The man is an ass, Luck decides. Luck wonders what he did to piss off Claire originally. Thinking of the prospect of that conversation with his brother, Luck downs the rest of his own drink.

 

“I knew there was something about that reporter!” Claire smiles. “Really Luck, I’m not the one to ask about romantic advice. He doesn’t seem the kind to enter a knife fight on the roof a of a moving train.” Claire shrugs, “you could take him shooting I suppose. I hear the Daily Days is well armed. Though I did get the jump on him before. You’ll have to train him up.”

“Claire.” Luck has perfected loading the name with exasperation over the years, “that isn’t what I meant.”

“Isn’t it?” Claire throws an arm over Luck’s stiff shoulders, “You were never meant to be a bachelor, confirmed or otherwise. This may not be the long run for you, but given your condition, no one will be. Except for me and Chane. And Firo, and the others who drank the elixir. But you’re not interested in them.” Claire points out.

“Who says I’m interested in Nicholas.”

“The reporter has a name.” Claire smiles and pokes Luck in the chest with one blunt nail, “I’m not saying you need to get married, I’m just pointing out that there’s happiness to be had in a life spent for two.” Claire’s smile drifts into what Luck is coming to think of as his “Chane” expression. “I’ve been declared mad before, but nothing’s ever proven me wrong. I know you understand this sort of madness. If you’re going to live forever, it’s an awfully long time to spend alone.”

“I’m not alone.” Luck thinks the protest is much weaker in the air than it was in his head.

“No you aren’t. You have family. You have lots of family, and if Keith gives the elixir to his wife there’ll be even more. But when you’re surrounded by nieces and nephews and are tired of hearing them all call for their uncle Luck, and when Berga moves in above the flower shop and spends every hour braiding blossoms into his beloved’s hair, we all still want you to be happy.” Claire’s voice is more tender than Luck’s heard for anything besides his sweet nothings to Chane.

“Thank you.” Luck says. Claire’s hand squeezes his shoulder.

“What are brothers for? But tell your reporter, your whoever,” Claire catches his eye with a hard look, “if they ever hurt you, I will break my retirement into tiny scarlet pieces over their dead bodies. Got that?” Claire ends with a smile.

“If anyone ever wants you all as in-laws.” Luck shakes his head, wry.

“Because it’s you, Luck, they’ll want to be.” Claire’s other arm comes around Luck’s shoulders in a hug. “They’ll want to be.” As Luck watches Claire leave the room he catches sight of his grin reflected back in the mirror over the fireplace. The curve of his eyes, the stretch of his lips, all configuring into a look that feels like warmth and joy. Firo and Ennis wander in from the other room. Firo stops in the doorway, arrested.

“Hey, you’re really _smiling_.” 


End file.
